


Jump in the River

by bitboozy



Series: Domesticated [1]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitboozy/pseuds/bitboozy
Summary: As time passes she wonders if he ever happened to her at all. If she had just altered her own memories to make those days seem bearable. To remember something from those years besides her own personal tragedy.When he shows back up in Broadchurch she could kill him.





	1. I

For him, it happened in the moment he told her the truth about her husband, brought forth by the look in her eyes when she begged for it not to be true.

(Truth be told, it may have happened somewhere in the moment when he learned that SoCo Brian had asked her out – in his disgust at the man’s gall he realized that attraction, on the whole and by nature, is not governed by _reason_ , and cannot be quelled by fact. Attraction runs wild and rampant and jealousy does not lie.)

For her, it happened much later. When he told her he was leaving. She hadn’t known what she was feeling – that she was feeling anything at all – until it was to be taken away.

(When she looks back, she prefers to think it happened in the hospital, watching him lie there, helpless and vulnerable and somehow still infuriating all the more for that. But no. That was merely attachment.) 

All the while he was gone, she tried not to think of him. She tried not to wonder what he was doing, where he had gone, why he had left. She tried not to make it about her. Logically she knew it couldn’t be. But perhaps that was problem. In her alone-est moments, she wonders why she wasn’t enough to keep him here.

He thinks of her unabashedly. Like a dream he replays in his mind, a memory that is just the slightest bit different each time it passes through. He misses many things about her but chief among them is the freedom of _arguing_ with her. He can yell at many, he can chastise anyone. But only she fights back. He has always liked the _fight_ of life. The challenge of breathing, the unmistakable strain of human interaction. It reminds him he’s moving forward. With her, the fight is a game he can’t win but loves playing anyway. Maybe _because_ he can’t win, and neither can she. It is infinite.

As time passes she wonders if he ever happened to her at all. If she had just altered her own memories to make those days seem bearable. To remember something from those years besides her own personal tragedy.

When he shows back up in Broadchurch she could kill him.

He won’t let her. He’ll fight with her about anything else but he won’t fight about that. She screams and shouts at a wall until she’s satisfied. Or maybe just depleted. He picks up where they left off and there’s nothing she can do about it. Her acceptance of the matter is forced but it does the job and she must do hers.

The truth is she’s just so grateful to have him back that her anger and frustration seem of little consequence.

After the Trish Winterman case is closed, she’s not sure she ever wants to see another man again. He’s not sure he is either.

She asks him to the pub because she hasn’t let her guard down in months. Has barely breathed. He says no, and she calls Beth.

No harm done. Tomorrow will be another day. He can’t leave _every_ time they close a case.

The next day he calls her into his office and it’s clear she’d had a few the night before.

“I see _you_ went to the pub,” he observes.

She looks at him with her head tilted, one eye closed.

“I see _you_ went to…nowhere,” she falters, frowning as it comes out of her mouth. 

He almost laughs. Doesn’t.

“I hangover all too easily these days, Miller,” he confesses with a wry smile. “And you’re a bad influence.”

“How would _you_ know?” She retorts, flicking off the overhead light in his office. The other eye opens as the darkness settles.

“Small town,” is his reply. “Word travels.”

After that, she starts to wear makeup. She’s not sure what brings it on, but she does know why. For _her_. Because she _wants_ to. She’s a single woman in her early forties and she doesn’t want to be alone for the rest of her life. Charm only gets you so far in a dirty pub with poor lighting.

She wears a skirt once in a while. Not often, mind, but on occasion. She goes for a shoulder length long bob, and never leaves the house without lipstick. Sometimes that’s all she has time or energy for, but she makes a pact with herself to ensure she never has to actively avoid a mirror again.

One late night at the office he makes the mistake of asking her who it’s for. She says, “wouldn’t you like to know,” and knocks off early.

Later she texts him: **I do things for myself now.**

His response is suspiciously quick, as if he’d been waiting for it. **Good way to get other people to do things for you.**

She raises an eyebrow. _Bit flirty_ , she thinks. And then immediately wonders if she’s wrong. **Such as?**

Oh, she’s really playing a game now, not that either of them has any idea of what that game _is_.

**Has it really been so long you don’t remember?**

She nearly gasps. _Cheeky bugger_!

It hasn’t, as a matter of fact, been so long, but he doesn’t need to know that, nor should he surmise it!

She sends a text to Daisy. **You home? Your dad been drinking?**

**Staring at his phone with a cuppa. Why?**

She leaves Daisy with that, and turns back to his message. She considers not responding – that way she’s _sure_ to win. But there’s a thrill traveling up and down her spine and she’s loathe to let it taper off so soon.

**The things I remember would curl your toes.**

She throws her phone down on the couch with a giddy squeal as if it’s burning. A long moment passes and the waiting becomes too much. She sends another message to Daisy: **And now?**

The response is like lightning: **Says he’s gone to shower.**

She throws the phone again and bolts up off the couch without any idea why she’s done it. She stands in the middle of the living room, motionless.

The response finally comes twenty minutes later, when she’s changed into her pajamas and poured a glass of wine.

**I’ll book an interrogation room.**

*****


	2. II

At work the next day he avoids her, but from her desk she can occasionally tilt her head and catch him peering at her through his office blinds.

It’s a mercifully light day, and at 6pm she gathers her things and walks over to his closed door. The second she reaches it, it flies open and he nearly runs into her.

“Bloody hell!” for her and a “Christ!” for him.

After a beat of recovery she says, “This is me off. I’ve a date tonight.”

He reacts as if it’s SoCo Brian all over again. “A _date_?!”

She raises an eyebrow. “Has it really been so long you don’t remember?”

He has to smirk at that, her using his own words against him. She is victorious, and then she remembers his Tinder date not too long ago, something she’d much rather forget. But the memory of their mobile exchange the night before is enough to alight them both.

“Bloke from Fred’s school,” she explains, though she doesn’t have to. “Fancies a _parent-teacher conference_.” She winks ostentatiously and it’s so endearing that he smiles even though he’s miserable.

“Does Fred know?” He folds his arms across his chest and furrows his eyebrows.

“Fred’s four.”

“Wee lads have feelings too, you know,” he counters, fully aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

She looks at him a minute, trying to puzzle him out, then gives up. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

And she’s gone.

He doesn’t go home. He takes Daisy out for supper, then releases her to the company of her friends. He goes down to the pier and sits on his bench. Well. Not just _his_. He’s not sure just how long he’s been there when he sees her. And _him_.

She’s wearing a low-cut silk blouse, fitted boot-cut jeans, and high heels. _High heels!_ He can tell she’s had a drink because she stares at her feet when she walks, as if her rapt attention on them will steady her. Then his fears come true and she reaches for her date’s arm as they stroll. She’s laughing coyly when out of what he can only assume is the corner of her eye, she spots him on the nearby bench. She stops walking, startling her date. He raises a hand, but doesn’t wave it. She smiles at him, her hair blowing around her face.

 _Christ, she is lovely_ , he thinks, even on another man’s arm.

They keep walking, and he watches until they’re out of sight.

It’s nearing midnight and he’s half-asleep with some case files resting on his chest when his phone chirps.

**What’s the matter? Never seen a lass in heels before?**

And then another, a few seconds later: **Took me four bloody hours to come up with that retort.**

He frowns, typing sleepily. **Retort to what?**

**To the look on your face back there.**

He sighs, and then realizes that if she’s texting _him_ at near midnight then her date must not have ended so well. For her, anyway. He smiles and sits up.

**Nice jeans.**

He comes up with another, better reply just seconds after he’s already sent that one and curses himself.

Chirp. **Is it the jeans you like or the arse in them?**

Oh, she’s drunk. She’s definitely drunk.

**Oi. Best not compliment your blouse then.**

He’s proud of _that_ reply.

She doesn’t respond. After a few minutes he realizes, she’s asleep.

The next day is Saturday and they both have the day off. They run into each other at the grocery, she with Fred in tow, and neither of them says a word about the night before. He spends the rest of the day trying to come up with something pithy to text her. Trouble is, he has no idea what he wants to say. He just knows he wants to say _something_ , wants to talk to her even when she’s not around, wants to hear anything at all she has to say to _him_. _Conversation,_ he notes, with some interest. It’s _conversation_ he likes. Who knew.

His phone chirps and his heart flutters so rapidly he’s nearly ashamed of it.

It’s Daisy. **Staying at Chloe’s. Don’t watch _Stranger Things_ without me.**

He scoffs. _Stranger Things._ She thinks he’s spellbound by it but he’s just watching it to spend time with her. To be honest he doesn’t understand the hype.

He’s about to fake his disappointment in a response to Daisy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Miller,” he says breathlessly when he flings the door open.

She’s holding up a bottle of scotch.

“Brought the pub to _you_ ,” she says with a cheeky grin.

*


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this way faster than I thought I would! Thanks for reading!

“What’s all this now?” He asks as she pushes past him into the sitting room. He can barely keep his mouth from hanging open so great is his surprise at her sudden appearance.

It does not go unnoticed by him that she’s wearing what looks to be the same jeans as last night. She’s wearing heeled boots this time, and an oversized, loose lilac jumper so sheer he can see her lacy black bra underneath it. Intentionally, he presumes, though he knows little of fashion trends.

“Where’s Daisy?” She’s going straight to the kitchen now, and she knows exactly where he keeps the short glasses. She pulls two out of the cupboard.

“At the Latimers’,” he replies, still a bit bewildered.

She nods imperceptibly, as if she already knew the answer, then she pours them each a finger of scotch and hands him a glass.

“Cheers,” she says, holding her glass up.

“…Cheers.” He clinks his glass to hers.

She throws some back, then walks past him again, back to the sitting room. He follows her, sipping slowly, never taking his gaze off her. She collapses on the couch in a way that is somehow elegant and utterly in control, then takes another sip.

“I went on a date last night, as you know, and he kissed me and I liked it.”

He knows instinctively that she didn’t. Or else she wouldn’t be here. He’s pleased with both this knowledge and his own perceptiveness.

“Why are you smiling,” she interrogates, frowning.

He hadn’t realized he _was_. He laughs, suddenly unable to even _feign_ unhappiness.

“I know you’re jealous,” she says firmly.

He grins and nearly laughs again. “Do you want me to be?”

“That’s besides the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“That you’re _jealous_ ,” she insists, leaning forward intently.

“I’m happy for you,” he says, suppressing a snort of laughter surprisingly successfully.

She gets up, frustrated. “Bloody wanker,” she says under her breath as she begins to pace.

She’s hovering by the window, sipping at her scotch, tapping her foot anxiously. He understands now that she fancies him at least as much he fancies her. Which, he would wager, is a lot.

She whips around suddenly. “You’re still _smiling_.”

He can’t help it and he almost says as much before he thinks better of it.

“You’re _maddening_ ,” he replies, shaking his head, smile still plain on his face.

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Maybe so but I look bloody good in a pair of jeans.” 

She turns away from him again, toward the window. He wonders if it’s intentional, to provide him with a _view_.

“You certainly do,” he nearly growls, raising his glass to his lips as his eyes remain on her.

He can _feel_ her smiling even with her back to him. She throws back the rest of what’s in her glass, sets it down, then swiftly exits outside. He does the same, then follows her, slowly. 

She’s staring out at the water, her back to him again, and he stands in the doorway. She’s of another world in the moonlight and he feels a _glow_ radiating in his chest when he looks at her.

“Ellie.” 

Hearing her first name from his lips should have knocked her off her feet but instead she whirls around and her eyes are glistening just so.

“Why has this taken so long?” She asks, eyes boring into his.

The question knocks _him_ off his feet but he steadies himself, and is surprised when the answer comes to him freely.

“Because we’re friends,” he replies simply.

She understands without effort, and hates that she does.

“Why did you leave?” Her question is stark, and honest. There’s no desperation or bitterness in her voice.

“I came back,” is his firm reply.

“For the same reasons?”

“Maybe I left because I knew you weren’t ready,” he says, hesitantly. “And maybe I came back because I hoped you’d be now.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, but it’s a question, and she knows he won’t answer it.

He takes a single step toward her, still much farther away from her than he’d like to be. “Are you?”

She looks down, shakes her head, then looks back up at him, open and glassy-eyed. She holds her arms out at her sides. “ _Look at me_ ,” she says, as if she can’t believe she even has to answer that question. 

He sees her, and now she can feel that he sees her. His eyes scan her body, hungry, appreciative, and a little moved by her. He’s imagined what her skin would feel like every night for almost three years. The idea that he might actually find out sends a warm tingle up and down his spine.

“ _Maddening_ ,” he says.

“Infuriating,” she calls him.

He can’t decide whether he wants to kiss her or hold her and instead, he holds out his hand. She reaches out and accepts it, but neither moves beyond that.

Her mobile rings. Their hands fall apart, down to their sides. It takes a moment for her to fully shake out of the reverie and reach for the device in her pocket.

“Dad,” she said to him sheepishly as she turns away from him to answer it.

He stays where he is, watching as she listens patiently to her father. Without hearing the words, he can clock the moment when her boys are put on the phone to speak to her. Her face lights up at the sound of their voices and she chatters away animatedly to them. The sudden phone call was a disturbance to him but not, he realizes, to her.

She’s saying goodnight to Fred, he can tell, and then warning Tom not to stay up too late. He has a football match first thing. The phone call has warmed him as much as her. He hardly notices when she hangs up and puts it away, returning it to her back pocket.

She keeps her back to him, and he wonders if she’s considering her options. Stay. Go. Jump in the river.

“The boys say hello,” she says without turning around.

He’s startled. “You told them you’re here?”

“They’re not bothered,” she replies, and he hears a faint chuckle. “Mightn’t say the same for Dad.”

He takes a few steps toward her now, and the heat seems to rise from the ground between them as he begins to close the distance. She still doesn’t turn around, and he realizes this is because she knows exactly what happens next. They’ve both waited so long for this moment, years of built up anticipation and tension, sleepless nights and fever dreams….

What if it fares better in their respective imaginations than it does when made manifest?

He’s directly behind her now. She smells like…lavender and balsam, both somehow. The collar of her loose jumper is stretched out, hanging near the edge of her shoulder. He reaches out, fingers brushing her neck, fire on fire, and pushes the fabric out of the way so that it falls off her shoulder entirely. He stares at the exposed skin there for a moment, taking one last moment to _imagine_ how it will feel on his lips before he knows. He runs the tips of his fingers along the back of her neck and he can feel her shiver despite the heat emanating from her skin. He leans down, lips a millimeter from her skin, when he hears:

“Alec.”

It’s barely a word, barely out loud, a whisper of a feeling, but he waits to hear more until he instead feels her _sigh_ , breath catching in her throat as she does so. It feels like permission and he brushes his lip across her bare shoulder. Then he dips his head further to press his lips more firmly into her skin, placing both hands at her hips, fingers curling around her waist.

She breathes in raggedly at first, electrified, then relaxes into him, leaning back flush against his body as he holds her in place and begins to suck at the taut skin of her shoulder blade. It feels right, somehow, that this is the first part of her body he should taste. He wants to take his time with her, catalogue the taste and feel of every inch. It’s his reward for astounding patience and restraint. He can tell she’s not in a hurry either. She’s working hard to measure her breathing, but she’s relishing every moment of it.

His rough hands slip further across her stomach, keeping her flush with him, and slowly his fingers brush the hem of her jumper and slip underneath. He bites her shoulder and then soothes the mark with his tongue.

“Ellie.” His breath is hot against her ear, and he feels her inhale sharply. He gives her lobe a quick nibble and she emits a soft, unintelligible sound from the back of her throat.

He pauses, teasing her. He thinks he hears a faint whimper.

He smiles. “Come inside?”

*


	4. IV

The idea of moving is….a _lot_ for Ellie to contemplate. Her legs already feel like jelly and she’s afraid if she tries to even wiggle her toes she might lose her balance. Luckily he seems very content just to be this close to her and doesn’t rush her answer. His arms fully encircle her waist, hands underneath her jumper, and his forehead is resting comfortably in the nook of her neck and shoulder, breath hot against her. She allows herself to relax, leaning back into him, and it takes a moment for her to realize they might be swaying a bit.

It’s fascinating to her, that she can be both electrified and relaxed at the same time. Tensions are high, but there’s no nervous energy. She has no doubts in her mind about anything that’s happening or will happen. And as much as she wants him, _really wants him_ , she reckons she likes this part just as much. The feeling of being turned on, lit up, on fire, is one she had nearly forgotten. And _god_ , it feels good.

He’s got two fingers snuck under the waistband of her jeans now, just lazily trailing back and forth as they sway almost imperceptibly, and she worries her eyes have rolled back in her head. The other hand is tracing her ribcage. She bites her bottom lip and realizes, she hasn’t even _kissed_ him yet. Hasn’t looked at him, seen his face, locked eyes. Her heart skips a beat because this means there is still so much yet to come.

She feels him open his mouth to speak and then close it again. She hasn’t answered his question, she remembers.

“What’s wrong with outside?” She asks, barely audible.

“Prying eyes,” he says, nipping at her earlobe again.

It’s amazing how good he is at this. For someone who struggles with nearly all forms of human interaction, good lord is he good at _this_. For all his awkward stiffness, she now suspects that his love language has in fact been _touch_ all this time. He is communicating his feelings almost _unbearably_ well through the insistence of his fingers pressing into her flesh and the way his lips can’t bear to be anywhere but on her.

“Too dark,” she murmurs, covering his hands with her own. “I could be anyone.”

His lips lift off her shoulder at that, and he insistently spins her around to look at him for the first time since those lips ever met her skin. She’s a bit startled, but not entirely surprised, and she can’t help but smile at the apparent desire in his eyes. It’s a look she’s never seen on him, and she revels in the idea that there must still be so much else about him she’s yet to see.

“No,” he says, voice low, accent thick. “You couldn’t.”

His hands are underneath her jumper again, one squeezing at her hip, the other tracing the length of her spine. She lays both palms flat on his chest, looking up at him.

“…We’re doing this, eh?” She says softly with a half-smile, and it’s clear that they are, in fact, doing this.

He leans down and brushes her lips with her own and suddenly she feels like quicksand slipping through his hands. He must be able to sense it because there’s just the faintest chuckle against her mouth. He pulls away the tiniest bit to look at her. Her eyes are closed.

“Ellie.” There it is again. “ _Come inside_.”

She blinks her eyes open. “Can’t move,” she admits a bit helplessly.

The look in his eyes suggests he might just sweep her up in his arms and carry her inside, but that’s too corny for them, even if it’s the most efficient solution. He takes a step back in the direction of the front door, pulling her with him.

One step.

Then another.

His arms are holding her tightly against him, her hands grip his shoulders. It’s almost like a dance, but there’s no rhythm.

Step.

Their eyes are locked the entire time. She smiles, trying so hard to suppress a girlish giggle.

Step.

They’re one step away from the open doorway now, and she’s miraculously still in one piece though she still feels like she would slide languorously down to the ground if he wasn’t holding her up.

Step.

His feet are over the threshold now, hers on the other side. She half expects to find mistletoe hanging directly above them.

There’s a smirk on his lips but so much love in his eyes and she feels no shame or embarrassment whatsoever about being weak in his arms.

She grins up at him, and he kisses the grin.

Step.

*


	5. V

All the ways he’s imagined it happening over the years, he never dreamed it would be so _simple_.

For a while he assumed it would happen in the heat of the moment, during an argument. They’d harangue each other until they were too close and too breathless and then suddenly – 

He occasionally thought it might happen after too much to drink. This, in fact, was his fear, and why he refused to go to the pub with her. Much as he longed to touch and be touched by her, that’s not how he wanted it to happen. Waking up in the morning with regrets and a hangover. Heads foggy, barely able to remember the momentous occasion.

He’d hoped it wouldn’t be connected to tragedy in some way, but knowing them, he couldn’t rule it out. An emotional moment, a comforting hug that would last too long, a kiss through tears, a night of desperate passion to help them both forget the continuous stream of pain that seemed to plague them.

Anyway, just so long as it didn’t happen at _work_. They’d never live it down. Once or twice, they’d come close. Or at least, _he_ believes they did. There was one late night and one early morning.

The late night, they’d been working eighteen hours straight. In the bullpen with a few other detectives, he’d been sitting on the edge of her desk, staring at a case file while she flipped through a number of old mugshots. She’d lost a button on her blouse at some point during the chaos of the day and a purple bra was all too visible to him ( _Purple?!_ He’d briefly wondered to himself, before being distracted by the flesh it attempted to cover.). He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring, and he’d inched closer to her without realizing it. At some point she looked up.

“Oi!”

After startling him, she looked down and noticed the missing button, then looked back at him in mock horror. He shook his head.

“Only zonin’ out, Miller!” He insisted, quickly turning his attention back to the case files in his hand.

“Like hell,” she’d retorted, before getting up and retreating into _his_ office, closing the door behind. 

He and the rest of the detectives had watched with furrowed brows until she came back out again, wearing one of his dress shirts that he kept hanging behind his door as a spare. The detectives looked to him for a reaction when she came out. He turned his eyes back down to his work.

“Please, help yourself, Miller,” he said, sarcastically, careful to look at no one.

She’d washed the shirt before returning it to him and he’d cursed her for it silently.

The second time was early in the morning. He’d been the first to arrive at CID that day, nearly at dawn, having given up on sleep hours earlier. She’d been the second. She hadn’t announced her arrival, and when he looked up he caught a glimpse of her through his office window, the morning sunlight hitting her in all the right places. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever seen something so beautiful. She’d caught him looking at her and, in a surprising turn of events, merely _smiled_ at him in return. No mocking, no eye rolling, no grimacing. Her smile drew him out of his office and over to her desk a little sheepishly.

“Up and about early there, sir.” She leaned back in her chair casually to regard him.

He didn’t say anything, and she smiled again, albeit with a suspicious raised eyebrow.

“ _Hardy_ ,” she said, trying to rouse him. “Did you get _any_ sleep last night?”

“Uh,” was all he could muster, and she laughed with such genuine mirth that he laughed too.

When they stopped, there was an unbearable silence. She tried to coax him through it with searching eyes.

Finally he said, “The mornin' looks good on you, Miller,” and wished she could be the first thing he laid eyes on as the sun rose each day.

She opened her mouth and closed it a few times, flummoxed.

“Carry on then,” he’d said with a nod, exiting back into his office. 

Never did he imagine that all it would take would be a bottle of scotch in his sitting room and a few steps in the right direction.

He has her pinned against the closed front door now, unable to keep from kissing the ever-loving _hell_ out of her. He feels sixteen again. His hands roam her body in a way that’s aimless but urgent. She grasps the front of his shirt with one hand, the other tangles in his hair.

He forgets what it’s like to breathe; she is air now.

*


	6. VI

She pushes him off of her suddenly. He groans softly, his lips immediately feeling the loss of hers, then searches her eyes. She is breathing as heavily as he is, their chests rising and falling as they struggle to keep their magnetic lips apart.

“All right?” He asks, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

She nods. “My bloody feet are killing me.” She reaches down between them and begins to pull off her boots. He watches her, unwilling to give her any space at all. She tosses her boots away, and loses nearly two inches of height.

He leans down and kisses her. Once, twice, three times, but the height difference threatens to challenge them a bit.

“Sofa?” She suggests brightly. 

“Whatever you want.” He’ll follow her anywhere.

She all but skips over to the sofa and he is utterly delighted by her. She sits on her knees and beckons him to her. He sits beside her, immediately turning to kiss her, when she says, “Another drink?”

He shakes his head. “No.” The only thing he wants to taste is her.

He attacks her lips with his again. She cups his face in her hands and he loves it. Her hands are soft and warm against his beard. His hands are on her arse, pulling her toward him and holding her there. Her mobile phone slips out of her pocket and neither of them notices. He’s on his knees now too, grinding against her.

She pushes his head back, holding him off her lips for a second as she catches her breath, then says, “I might want one.”

“What?” He’s utterly lost.

“Drink.”

And suddenly she’s up, and he nearly falls forward onto the couch. “ _Miller_ ,” he complains. It just comes out that way.

She whirls around at the return of her surname. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, _Hardy_ , I’ll just be a minute.”

He watches her disappear into the kitchen, forlorn. A minute is a minute too long. He collapses back against the couch, unsure of what to do with himself for these sixty seconds.

She reappears in the doorway, sipping her scotch. She’s smiling at the sight of him.

“What d’you need _that_ for,” he asks, mildly afraid of the answer.

“Don’t _need_ it,” she replies, with an eyeroll, taking another sip.

“Choosin’ it over _me_ right now,” is his retort.

“Aw,” she coos, mockingly, taking a few steps toward the couch. “DI Hardy jealous of a little Glenlivet?”

He’s pouting, he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop.

“Just needed a _breather_ ,” she explains, putting the glass down on the coffee table and moving to sit beside him. “Don’t worry. You _have_ me.”

He looks at her quizzically and realizes quite quickly that she _knows_. She has always known him without knowing him, and here she is, reading his mind. His fear of their first time being written off as a drunken escapade, of waking up with regret and dismissing the whole thing.

She has reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, with a knowing and reassuring smile. “You have all of me.”

He’s amazed by her. He raises their joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand, before maneuvering their hands around to kiss her palm, then the pulse point at her wrist.

“You’re a bloody marvel,” he whispers into her skin, but he’s staring right at her.

The second his lips leave her hand, _her_ lips are on them. She’s _starving_ all of a sudden, the aggressor, hands moving with impressive dexterity to unbutton his shirt. She’s back sitting up on her knees to ease the height difference and his hands are kneading the back of her thighs, sliding up and down. Up and down. Down and - 

“Son of a bitch,” she breathes into his mouth. She hasn’t felt this good in years.

He laughs, pulling his head back just enough to look at her, to see the utter contentment on her face. “You can say that again.”

“What?” She hadn’t even heard herself say it in the first place.

He laughs again, and she pushes him back on the couch, throwing herself on top of him. She can see the wild _thrill_ of it written all over his face. She always suspected he secretly liked a woman in charge. She plants kisses all over his throat and collarbone, then pushes off his shirt. He divests it entirely, and by then she’s left several marks on his skin, rivaling the ones he’s already left on hers. Then his hands are sliding up her jumper, cupping her breasts through her pesky bra. Her tongue slows as it drags across his chest, reacting to his touch.

“Ellie. Can I – ?”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. She sits up, pulls her jumper over her head, and flings it across the room. Her black bra is lacy, skimpy, and everything that suggests she knew _exactly_ what she wanted when she showed up at his door tonight. He has to fight to keep his hands away because he just wants to _look_ at her. He rests his hands at her jean-clad thighs and gazes up at her until she blushes. Hesitantly, and certainly more shyly than he’s ever seen her act, she reaches back to unhook her bra clasp and he swallows hard. Now loose, the garment slips down her arms and she lets it drop to the floor.

“Christ,” he swears under his breath. 

The look on her face tells him it’s been a good while since anyone’s seen this much of her in the light. Her eyes have questions in them, questions he wishes she knew the answer to without having to be told. He’s more than happy to tell her. But he wishes she knew already. He can’t remember a time he’s been so turned on and so moved in the same moment.

“Extraordinary,” he says, quietly, but with enough conviction to quell her implied uncertainties. 

Her lips tremble a bit and start to curl up into just a hint of a smile.

“My god, Ellie, you are beautiful.”

Her smile is one of relief and gratitude. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks back any moisture. He reaches up to touch her cheek, then his hand trails down her jawline, her throat, collarbone, chest, and through the valley between her breasts. 

She lurches down and kisses him then, and he’s maybe never loved anything as much as he loves the feel of her breasts against his bare chest.

He wants to say _I love you_ then. But, he decides, _one thing at a time._

*


	7. VII

The hardest part is making it all the way to the bedroom without tripping over furniture. Everything else is easy. 

As soon as they’re behind closed doors, she’s whipping off his belt as he continues to give her breasts the full attention of his hands and lips. His trousers come off easily once she unfastens them and she is pleased to learn he is a _briefs_ man. _Her_ jeans will not be so cooperative. It’s clear he does not like them so much anymore. After fiddling with them to no avail, he is forced to drop to his knees and tug them inch by inch down her legs. She watches his frustration evaporate quickly as he realizes the inherent sexiness of literally peeling her clothing off her body. Once he’s pulled them off her entirely, he sits on his knees, looking up at her in a way that is totally reverent and worshipful. No one has ever looked at her quite like that before.

She smiles at him, then she slides downward, back against the wall, until she’s on the floor with him, face to face.

“Hi,” she says, reaching for his hand.

The emotion in his voice surprises her when he answers in kind. “Hi.”

He runs his thumb along the palm of her hand, and she leans forward and kisses him softly.

“All right?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” she replies, with a smile. “You?”

He grins. “Yeah.”

Lips locked together, they somehow find their way to their feet, hands grasping at each other desperately as they stumble to the bed. She flops back down on the bed, and he grabs her thighs and slides her backward before crawling over her, settling in between them. She’s stripped down to her knickers, him to his briefs, and the fabric of both is driving them insane. His lips are glued to her neck, alternating between sucking and biting, while her hand slips past the waistband of his briefs. The other hand is unconsciously tracing his pacemaker scar. 

“You’re good to…?” She asks, palm flat against his rapidly beating heart.

“Assume so,” he answers against her lips before nipping at the bottom one.

He hasn’t had sex since the surgery, she realizes. The knowledge of this gives her an extra little tingle. But it’s been years, so surely…

“’M not dead yet, Ellie,” he says, sensing her slight hesitation. “And if this kills me, so be it.”

She can’t help laughing, and she takes his face in both hands, kissing his nose, his eyelids, his cheek. “Say that again,” she insists, and he knows somehow exactly what she means.

“Ellie.”

She’s liked the way it sounded coming out of his mouth earlier, but now with him rubbing against her rhythmically, it’s positively driving her wild.

“If this kills you, I’ve got dibs on your job,” she murmurs, biting his earlobe.

“Saucy minx,” he growls into her throat, dragging his lips down to her collarbone.

“How do you know that wasn’t my plan all along?” She poses coyly, one eyebrow raised.

He looks at her now, oh that pointed glint in her eyes he knows so well, and loves so much more in _this_ particular context. His eyes looking steadily into hers, he slips a hand into _her_ knickers. “Oh,” he says, smugly satisfied with what he finds there. “ _I know_.”

She lets out a moan that he can feel in his _spine_ and she arches her hips up into his hand. “For fuck’s sake, get them off,” she complains.

He does, dragging them off her body and flinging them off her legs, then kissing his way down her left leg, from her foot down to her inner thigh. She’s already grasping at the mattress, balling up the sheets in her fists. He sticks with his spot on her inner thigh, intent on leaving yet another mark on her milky flesh. She’s hissing through her teeth now, and he has to place a hand on her stomach to keep her firm against the mattress.

“Steady on, Miller,” he mumbles into her skin, and this time the _Miller_ turns her on. Way on. She suddenly has flashes of him taking her up against the closed door of his office, of her closing the blinds and throwing him down on his desk. _God, this is going to be fun._

Suddenly he’s grabbed both thighs, pulling her impossibly closer to his mouth.

“Wait.” 

_No, no, no,_ he prays silently. _Not now_.

“Want you first,” she insists, barely coherent.

He looks up at her.

“You don’t get to feel me before I feel you,” she says firmly, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. “Same time. Fair’s fair.”

 _Good god, she’s a stubborn thing_ , he thinks, letting go of her thighs and standing up. _An impossibly lovely, stubborn thing._

He strips off his briefs, then crawls over her again until he can kiss her beautifully bruised lips. “Fair’s fair,” he agrees, unsure of whether they’re waging war or calling a truce, but it doesn’t matter. For them they’re the same. 

He lifts himself up over her briefly, and she notices for the first time just how muscular his thin frame actually is. “Condom,” he says, starting to reach over her to toward the nightstand.

She pulls him back to her and smiles at the unadulterated _need_ she finds in his eyes. “On the pill,” she reveals, nearly fluttering her eyelashes.

He almost collapses right onto her such a tidal wave is his relief. “Oh thank god.”

She chuckles, fingers in his hair, and he lifts his head to get right back to kissing her. “Bloody marvel,” he repeats, with great adoration.

He’s gotten so lost in exploring her mouth again, dexterous fingers pinching her nipples, that he barely hears her when she moans pleadingly: “ _Alec_.”

But he does. And he knows exactly what it means.

*


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

The last time Ellie Miller had multiple orgasms was when she was pregnant with Fred. During that time, it was all she could do to keep herself from climbing Joe like a tree anytime he was caught standing still. Of course, he didn’t mind so much. (Can’t say the same for Tom.) Her pregnancy hormones were out of control, and not a man in town could so much as brush up against her without making her weak and dizzy. She would always remember one backyard party in particular where a gentle touch on the shoulder from Paul Coates sent her running to the loo and locking the door. 

But she’s not thinking of that _now_. Not after the beautiful, infuriating man next to her has just made her come three times in succession within a mere….she has no idea how long it’s been. She doesn’t care. Now, his head is lying on her stomach and her legs are hanging off the bed, both of them dripping with sweat and seeing stars. She lazily draws little circles on his bare chest with her index finger as he runs the back of his hand up and down her leg. They’re still unwilling to sever their physical connection for even so much as a second. She’s not sure how long it’s been since either of them have spoken.

Her mind wanders aimlessly as her breath begins to return to a normal rhythm. Suddenly she’s utterly miffed they waited so long to feel this way.

“Knob,” she mutters under her breath.

He barely lifts his head. “Hm?”

“You should have kissed me sooner.”

He turns over, head still on her stomach, to look up at her, but she won’t look at him.

“Why’s it all down to me?!” He complains.

“Because instead of kissing me, you disappeared for years on end,” she answers. “Which is the _opposite_ of kissing me.”

“You didn’t want me to then!”

She’s about to argue that point when she wonders if it was true. And it was. She didn’t know she wanted him until he had gone.

She sighs. “You’re right.”

He blinks at her. “What did you just say?”

“Not saying it again, don’t even try.”

He plants a kiss on her ribcage, then rolls over to sit up halfway, propping his head up on his elbow.

“D’you want to stay?”

The hopefulness in his eyes nearly breaks her in two. She grimaces sheepishly. “Don’t think Dad would like it much.”

“I think I can take him,” he retorts, tracing the outline of her breast with his free hand.

She laughs. “Pay to see _that_.”

He leans down to plant a kiss underneath her breast, then sucks on the underside of it. She breathes in sharply.

“ _Stay_.”

She runs her fingers through his hair lightly as his mouth closes around her nipple. Her head falls back into the mattress, her back arching into him. “Mmm ‘kay.”

The idea of a warm body in bed next to her all night is so appealing she can’t find the words anyway.

He crawls up until his body is flush against hers and kisses her lips, pushing her hair back out of her face.

She wants to say _I love you_ then. But, she decides, _one thing at a time_.

***


End file.
